


Wake Me Up (when all is done)

by IAmANonnieMouse



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Death, Eames POV, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, such sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9641192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmANonnieMouse/pseuds/IAmANonnieMouse
Summary: Arthur is killed on a Tuesday, one week before their seven-year anniversary.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sagemb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagemb/gifts).



> For Sage, who texted me last night: _imagine your otp extreme edition. arthur and eames--who is the first to die and how?_ If anyone has any issues with this, please forward all complaints to Sage. Thank you in advance.

Arthur is killed on a Tuesday, one week before their seven-year anniversary.

On Wednesday, Eames pulls out all of Arthur’s files and moleskines and tracks down every scrap of information he can find about the people who killed his husband.

(He has to stop, sometimes, and stare at Arthur’s handwriting and watch its transition from neat cursive to almost-unintelligible loops to jagged spikes. He’s never going to see Arthur write again. He—)

On Thursday, he packs everything he needs in the small, worn duffel that still smells like Arthur, locks up their house, and catches a plane.

(The woman sitting next to him flirts shamelessly until Eames silently raises his hand, the gold band catching the light. She’s more subdued after that, and Eames can’t help but smile as he imagines Arthur’s reaction, his derisive snort, his arched eyebrow. He’s never going to kiss a scowl off Arthur’s face again. He—)

On Thursday-Friday (depending on time zones), he lands and gets a hotel room. At the bottom of his duffle is one of Arthur’s ties, a bright orange one that Eames bought for him three years ago, one of Arthur’s moleskines, and a small, nondescript black case. Eames holds the tie, feels the silk slide through his fingers, and remembers how it looked, knotted perfectly at Arthur’s collar, bright against the dark of his suit.

(He used to kiss Arthur when he was dressed like that, just to pull his tie askew and grin innocently as Arthur had to readjust it. He’s never going to kiss Arthur like that again. He—)

Eames puts the tie back in the bag with the moleskine. He pulls out the black case and opens it.

On Friday, he tracks down two of the men responsible for the death of his husband. People always underestimate him, focus instead on Arthur standing protectively in the foreground, but they forget: Eames grew up in the streets, Eames was in the army, Eames has less of a conscience than Arthur.

(Eames dissociates from himself easily, too easily sometimes, slides out of his own skin and can’t remember how to get back inside. Arthur used to hold him close, clutch him tight enough to hold Eames’ fragments together until he was strong enough to pick up the pieces himself. Eames won’t get to feel that anymore, treasure the strength in Arthur’s wiry arms. He—)

Eames comes back to himself in the hotel room, hands in the sink. The faucet is running, the water stained red. He stands there for seconds, minutes, years, until his skin puckers, until he realizes his hands, his arms, his body is shaking. He manages to turn off the faucet and falls onto the bed, reaching for the warm body that isn’t next to him.

On Saturday, he nearly misses his flight, shoves everything haphazardly into his duffel and runs through the airport. He has a schedule, and he almost botched it, almost messed everything up.

(That used to be Arthur’s job, to keep them both in line. Eames still hasn’t gotten used to living without Arthur and his fake frown and his treacherous dimples. Arthur would grab Eames by the ankle and drag him from the bed if he overslept, would let Eames pull him to the floor and kiss him and touch him and love him until he pulled away and smiled and said they really, _actually_ had to go now. Eames will never get woken up like that again. He—)

On Saturday afternoon, he lands in another time zone and books another hotel room. He runs a hand through his hair. It’s greasy; he should shower. He puts his duffel on the floor and lies down on top of the bed, dreams of warm eyes, gentle smiles, soft curls.

(Arthur actually adored his curly hair, used to stand in front of the mirror and just smile at it, but Dom told him nobody would ever respect a curly-haired kid, so he turned to gel. But whenever they weren’t working, Arthur would strut around the house, bobbing his head until his curls flopped around his face, and laugh. Eames is never going to play with those wavy strands again, feel them twist around his fingers. He—)

He wakes up after the sun has set. He pulls out the tie again, presses it against his face, catches the faintest whiff of Arthur. He puts it away and reaches for the black case.

The next person he tracks down is a woman, and she pleads and bats her eyelashes and cries and begs, but Eames knows better, he read Arthur’s notes. _Raging, backstabbing bitch,_ Arthur had written. It takes a lot for Arthur to think that way about someone.

(The only other time Eames has heard Arthur use the word bitch was to describe one of their marks, a wife of some multi-billion-dollar CEO who was cheating on her husband with multiple men and selling his business secrets on the side. Eames can still picture Arthur, his flushed cheeks, his righteous fury over the betrayal, his endearing and frightening moral compass. He doesn’t have that in his life anymore. He—)

Eames comes back to himself, barely, while he’s still in the room with her. There’s a lot of blood. He blinks slowly. _Get out, Eames,_ he can hear Arthur say. _Clean up, get out. Quick and smart._ Quick and smart, he breathes. He gets out.

There is only one man left, and he lives the next town over. Eames checks the time. It’s Sunday now, the early morning. He’s on schedule, for once. He goes back to the hotel and washes in the sink. He knows he should shower, but he can’t bear to do it, can’t look at it without remembering the last one he took.

(Arthur had come back from his morning jog and laughingly pulled Eames into the bathroom with him. One more kiss, he’d said, eyes sparkling. One more before I have to go. He was so beautiful. He—)

Eames’ face is itchy. He finds a razor, somewhere, and shaves. Arthur liked him like that, clean-shaven.

His stomach feels hollow, and he has that itching emptiness at the back of his throat. He should eat something. He sprawls on the bed and clutches the empty bedspread, imaging he’s holding a slim, warm hand instead.

He wakes up later and squints at his phone. It’s still Sunday. There’s only one man left. He closes his eyes and wishes he had a PASIV.

Sunday evening, he rents a car and drives to the next town over. The man is lazy, sloppy. Eames walks in the front door.

The man is a coward. It’s offensive that _this_ killed his husband. Corrupted Somnacin blend, three bullets while he was still under, two to the head, one to the heart. The weasel cowers under his dining room table. He stutters, of course, but what he’s saying catches Eames’ attention, so Eames lets him live a little longer than he’d originally planned. It’s fine. It’s still Sunday.

Eames walks out the front door, drives back to the hotel. Washes at the sink. Sits on the bed. It’s only Sunday.

(Arthur loved Sundays, respected them more than the most religious Catholic probably did. You can’t get out of bed before ten, he used to say. Breakfast can only be eaten in the bedroom. No shop talk. Eames never had an issue with Arthur’s rules. They never talked much Sunday mornings anyway. He can still hear Arthur’s gasps, taste Arthur’s lips, feel Arthur’s body pressed against his. He’s never going to touch Arthur’s skin again. He—)

He falls asleep with a cheap soap opera playing on the TV. When he wakes up, it’s Monday. Only Monday.

He forces himself outside, into the rest of the world. He watches the people around him without interest, wanders without aim. The weasel’s words echo in his head.

_You weren’t supposed to be like this, that’s why we killed him, not you, he—_

It’s only Monday. He’s ahead of schedule for the first time ever, and he hates it. Monday.

He goes back to the hotel, forces down some food. Breathes in and out and in and out and steps into the shower, flinches as the water hits his skin, and steps out a few minutes later, trembling. He shaves, once his hands are steady again. The clock ticks over to Tuesday. Finally.

He opens the duffel, pulls out the orange tie and a suit, Arthur’s favorite on him. It’s light and soft and gorgeous with swirls of color and pattern, and Arthur bought it for him, smiled and laughed as Eames flirted with the easily-embarrassed tailor, and Eames adores it. He puts it on, knots the orange tie.

_You weren’t supposed to be like this._

Eames pulls out the moleskine he brought, flips through the pages filled with Arthur’s familiar scrawl and stops at the end. Last Sunday, Eames sketched Arthur in bed, sheets pooled gracefully around him, lips curled into a devilish grin, eyes heavy-lidded and lazy. Eames rests his fingers on it and mourns.

It's Tuesday.

He cleans up all his things, checks out of the hotel. Drives to the building nearby, the now-empty warehouse that Arthur had been working in.

_One more kiss. One more before I have to go._

Eames’ footsteps echo in the open room. He paces across the floor, stops at the dark stain. So this is where. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. His suit is pristine, his tie perfect, his hands steady.

(Arthur adored Tuesdays. It’s Tuesday, Eames, he used to say. You married me on a Tuesday. Remember? To have and to hold, from this day forward. ‘Til death do us part. It’s Tuesday, Eames. Our special day.)

It’s Tuesday.

(Eames married Arthur on a Tuesday, seven years ago. He can still taste their wedding cake, the champagne. Can still see Arthur’s face across from him, his radiant smile, his outstretched hand. Eames’ finger flexes, tightens. He—)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr.](http://iamanonniemouse.tumblr.com/) Come scream at me.
> 
> Also, as always, I SWEAR I HAVEN'T FORGOTTEN ABOUT MY WIPS. More will come for them, I pinky promise!


End file.
